


the fruits of the garden

by blueraspberrybubblegum



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Furniture Sex, PWP, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, also hilariously heavy use of figurative language, it's called maiesiophilia, mild transformation kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueraspberrybubblegum/pseuds/blueraspberrybubblegum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is John Egbert and your girlfriend is turning into a whale, all clumsy and slow and kind of exploding out of her clothes, and the best part is, you think you like it. (Alternatively titled “Motherf**ker.”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fruits of the garden

**Author's Note:**

> The Homestuck pregnancy kink tag was so empty! WELL NO MORE
> 
> Edit: Pulling this story out of the LILIH tag because it's not LILIH canon. It was a fun experiment, though!

Your name is John Egbert and your girlfriend is turning into a whale, all clumsy and slow and kind of exploding out of her clothes, and the best part is, you think you like it.

You’ve barely seen her in the last month – she’s been ill and bedridden, and Jane’s kept you away, so all you’ve gotten are glimpses from the doorway when you brought her dinner by or stuck your head in to check up. Mostly she’s been sleeping, just a messy blonde mop and two stick-thin elbows poking out of a pile of blankets. Not much to see.

Now, watching from the doorway as she works herself to the edge of the bed so she can tumble off the side, you can finally appreciate what you’ve been missing. She’s so _heavy_ her legs tremble to support her weight, and she walks herself along the wall using the furniture to keep her balance. One hand on the dresser, one resting protectively on her belly. Her face, wan from sickness, pale from seclusion, is glowing with a sheen of perspiration and two pink splashes that bring to mind the skin of a ripe peach.

Roxy stops picking her way across the floor towards you when she realizes you’re watching her. She leans on the dresser, her face breaking into the warmest smile she can muster; her lips are trembling with the effort, but the crinkles at the corners of her eyes speak to its sincerity. Your own expression, wide-eyed and grinning and dumbstruck, is just like the time your dad took you to New York City at Christmastime and you couldn’t stop gaping at the lights in Central Park and the skaters all bundled up and etching patterns into the ice at Rockefeller Center and the giant red ribbon wrapped around Sacs Fifth Avenue. You’re drinking her in and she’s basking in it. She loves the way you look at her, which is lucky for you, because _damn_ you love to look.

“Hey, Roxy.”

“Hey, baby.” Her nightgown, a thin pink thing, is hiked up around the root of her swollen abdomen, spilling off it in rustling folds. The back half hits her knees but the front only falls to mid-thigh. Her feet are planted a little wide to help her keep from wobbling.

You wish you didn’t melt into an inarticulate lump when you’re turned on. As far as words go, you’ve already exhausted yourself, so you just wait there, hoping Roxy will give you some direction. You’re not sure how she’ll react if you come on to her – considering, you know, _her condition –_ it’s safer to gauge her receptiveness first.

“Come here, you big lunk, and help me get out of this thing. I think I want to go for a walk after all.” Your stomach does a flip and settles itself wrong way up, but you cross over to her to help her fiddle with the tiny buttons. Her fingers are too cold, fumbling ineffectually at the neck of the nightie, so you get down to her breastbone before she pops the first one open. Visible through her translucent skin, the tops of her breasts are laced with blue veins; it seems like they droop just a little lower than they used to. Another button gives way, and you catch a glimpse of the smooth curve of a dark nipple. Your breath catches.

“Why’d you stop?”

Stupidly, you answer, “You’re, uh, not wearing a bra.” Like, oh by the way, that water falling from the sky means it’s raining. She laughs and reaches under your motionless hands to unfasten the next pearly button.

“You’ve seen my boobs before, doofus,” she murmurs affectionately.

Heh. Boobs. Boooobs. You stifle a giggle, but not before it reaches your nose with a _snerk_.

Your hands work more quickly, laying her open to the bottom of her ribcage. Her skin lies over the slats of her ribs like a tent over its frame, too prominent, belying the gravity of her breasts. She finally gets the middle undone, and the nightgown falls open, slipping off her shoulders. You pull her close, burying your face in her hair. Her conditioner smells sweet and fruity.

“John?”

“I love you, baby,” you tell the crown of her head. It tilts back.

“Honey, I missed you so much, you have no idea. There’s always someone sitting in here with me, but it’s never you. I thought you thought I was gross and fat and didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Roxy,” you tell her, forehead to forehead, “that’s the farthest thing from the truth.”

“But look at me! I’m enormous!” You spread your hands against the sides of her stomach, like you’d hold a basketball. Her belly isn’t soft or flabby. It feels almost firm under your fingers, like a balloon, stretched over the pressure inside, only instead of air it’s filled with flesh. And then – thinking about balloons – you imagine it growing in time-lapse motion, expanding perceptibly as you hold her, nudging into your groin. You see yourself having to stretch to wrap your arms around her, her burgeoning mass tugging at the muscles tying your shoulder blades to your back and the ligaments in your elbows….

That sure got weird fast. “You’re really not that big,” you reassure her.

“Liar!”

“Read my lips,” you say, and lay them on hers. She sucks her lips in to moisten them, tilting her head back. Her tummy is trapped between you. You nearly forgot how nice it was just to kiss her, without the expectation of sex, letting your mouths mold against each other. The lazy way she opens up and flicks her tongue against yours reminds you of when you were still living on the meteor and you were stupid crazy for each other and it was weird because you were having marathon makeout sessions with Rose’s mom. Now she’s going to be a mom for real, and, strangely, she’s hotter than ever. You turn your head to get at her sideways and she follows, responding to your momentum. She’d make a great dance partner, you think: she follows your lead on instinct like she knows what you’re going to do before you know it yourself. You would love to learn how to dance with Roxy, if she’d give you the chance.

Exposed, her nipples tighten and pebble against the chill air, and one pert tip brushes your arm. She lets out a quiet gasp that’s more than a little encouraging so you figure she won’t mind if you touch it.

“Gently, gently, don’t squeeze,” she says. You rest her breast in the crook between your thumb and forefinger, lifting the heft of it to touch the point to the tip of your tongue. You nibble at it using just your lips, and the only thing stopping you from sucking in earnest is the way she draws in her breath that tells you just how sore they are. Today, in this room, you’ve caught her mid-transformation. Her body is rearranging itself around the seed in her center, the seed you planted inside her, and it’s not a benign process. You don’t wish pain upon her – you’re not a sadist, for crying out loud – but you relish the fact that her body aches because it’s evidence of her metamorphosis. She’s growing, changing, and you don’t know what form she’ll take on the other side. She could be anything, a tiger, an alien, a tree. She could be a goddess. She could eat you up and add you to the thing in her belly, and you would rest there, getting strong, until she pushed you back out into the world, a monster like herself.

Crap. Crap. Your arousal couldn’t be more obvious, seeing as it’s pressed firmly against her stomach. You’ve been mouthing desperately at her nipple like you think it’s going to let down milk, and she’s yanking at your hair, trying to get you to touch her more softly.

“Sorry, Roxy, I –“

She cuts you off, biting at your mouth like a wild animal, scraping her teeth along your tongue. She’s steering you with her fist and grinding her belly against the bulge in your pants, grappling with the last button that’s keeping her nightgown from slipping off her belly. You were joking around when you asked Jane whether the pregnancy hormones made girls horny, but this doesn’t feel like a joke. You take over messing with the button because she’s not getting anywhere, and it comes free just as she reaches out to palm you through your clothes. You make a happy noise against her mouth.

She unlatches herself, heaving, her fingers still knotted in your hair, her lips an oh-so-kissable cherry red.

“Not gross, huh?”

“Roxy, your body is perfect,” you pick her up, settling her on your throbbing member, “– amazing – wonderful –“

She wraps her legs around you, and you reach under the curve of her buttock to find her labia. Your fingers come back sopping wet. “– And all I want to know is if sex will hurt the baby.”

“Hurt the baby? Are you kidding me? The wiggler’ll probably enjoy it as much as I will,” she laughs.

The bed’s a bit too tall but the dresser’s about right. She clears it with a sweep of an arm, releasing her leglock so you can grab some pillows to prop her up. When you come back, she helps you strip. It doesn’t actually get your clothes off any faster, but you appreciate the intent. Her spread legs reveal a glistening, engorged pink flower.

She says, “I want you in me, John,” and lets her fingertips skip along your length, base to tip, smearing your pre-cum with the ball of her thumb.

“Not yet, baby, be patient,” you tell her, putting yourself at eye level with her ripe vulva. You spread her lips with two fingers, marveling at the color of her cherry, a round red nub in a sea of pink. You lick your thumb and when you roll it across her, she moans your name. Her cheeks heat to hot pink as you stroke her, listening for the way her breath hitches that tells you you’re doing it right.

Your mouth is next, kissing her as though she could kiss back down here, thrusting your tongue inside as she digs her heels into your shoulder blades. Her hands are back on your head, but this time instead of pulling they’re pushing, pressing your face into her cleft. She trembles when you flick across her clit, tightens her scarred thighs around your neck when you suck it, hard, as hard as you wanted to suck her swollen breasts. You spread your fingers as wide as you can and fuck her with your tongue, wishing it were thicker, longer, wanting to explore her fertile depths, to taste her from the inside. Before you know it, she’s coming, spasming powerfully around you, your name on her lips sounding like a sob.

You emerge from between her legs feeling like a champion, your chin slick with her girl juices. The swell of her tummy calls you. You rest your head on it, listening to the muffled sounds inside, while she reclines on her pillows reeling from the potency of her orgasm. When you close your eyes, you can imagine the organic machine inside her roiling and churning as it fabricates a second self, a homunculus shaped like you. How does it get a soul, you wonder. Do they just float by until they find an empty vessel to latch onto, invading and pervading the blank mind of the fetus, boring holes for thoughts to flow through? Will she add it herself at the end, the finishing touch on her magnum opus? Maybe the soul is there from the beginning, the grain of sand around which a child is built, growing like a pearl in its mother’s folds. Maybe your seed is the grain of sand. Maybe your seed is the soul. You find yourself panting, working back up to full arousal with the realization that you are responsible for setting Roxy’s transfiguration into motion. It was you, you who turned the key, you who opened this marvelous vault, and no matter what you find inside you know it was you who put it there.

“Fuck, Rox, I…” You trace potential endings to that sentence across her belly with the tip of your nose, not sure how to pick just one. She seems to get it, though, and wraps her hand around you, working the base of your dick with a tight ring of fingers. You push your own into her mouth, letting her moisten them fully before moving them to her cleft. Inserting your fingers to the hilt, you wish you could reach farther, follow the winding path inside to her womb. If she could take your forearm to the elbow it still wouldn’t be enough. If only you could crawl up inside her and greet your child face to face. You want to see it, to know it. You want to recognize yourself in its eyes.

She licks the drying fluid from your lips, mouthing at you with eyes half closed. From the way she’s clenched around your fingers – from the needy sounds in her throat – you think she’s ready.

“Baby, baby, tell me what you want,” she cries out softly, jerking you as fast as she can.

This time you know what to say. “I want to worship you,” you whisper into her ear, pressing yourself to her entrance and pushing through. She hooks her ankles together behind your neck, leaning back on the cushions, and clings to the edge of the dresser for leverage to impale herself on you with a whimper. You take your pleasure in riding her slowly. She’s laid out in front of you, a wonderland of femininity to lay claim to. Her abdomen seems like a ripening fruit grown sweet and soft and heavy; her breasts, with their dark hard nipples, jiggle when you bury yourself in her. You feel as though, when you plunge in to your fullest extent, you can touch her secrets.

In this position, it’s easy to watch your cock sliding into her. Her moisture makes a tideline around its base. You’re a big guy, alright, but fucking her in this state, with her hormones riding sidecar, she feels loose and cushy. In your mind, you work out how thick you’d have to be for her to feel tight around you again, imagining your dick growing huge and tumescent, and then it’s not pushing _in_ , it’s pushing _out_. She’s stretched wider than you thought possible and screaming with the force of it, and somehow your brain turned sex into childbirth and showed you a vision of Roxy in orgasm around your baby’s crowning head, which is horrifying and hot as hell, and in the real world you are slamming into her a lot harder than you meant to.

Her breasts are bouncing uncontrollably, but instead of trying to confine them she’s spread one hand over the top of her belly, pushing it inexorably down, towards you and your thrashing member, her mouth parted in a rapturous round letter. Her body is the world in April, wet and turgid and exploding with life. Her mouth, her areolae, her crimson-colored cunt are the blooming spring buds adorning her bare branches, and her gravid center is the forbidden fruit. You burn to suckle its juices and taste your immortality. She’s the jar you could pour yourself into for the rest of your life, wasting away to watch her blossom and flourish, knowing that she would cherish the best part of you and wrap it around her heart and spin it out to weave cloth-of-gold baby cum angels with eyes as blue as the sky.

Your orgasm, when it hits, is the spring floods coming down off of the Cascades. It erupts in a roaring rush, jet after jet of cum pumping into her until the flow diminishes to a pulsing trickle. You milk it as long as you can, wishing you could make it last, fill Roxy to bursting with your seed until it spills out around you, craving for each drop take root in her fertile garden and transform her anew.

It’s almost twenty minutes before she says, from a boneless slump on her throne of pillows, “I don’t think a walk is going to happen today.” You giggle helplessly, your cheek resting on the mound of her womb, and ask yourself what she would think about having a boatload of kids.

A couple dozen sounds about right. She’d be pregnant for _years_.

You cart her over to the bed and cuddle there, naked, your arms snaked around her waist to cradle the life within, hoping that her bout with sickness and depression is finally over and you can treat yourselves to more babymoon sex before the offer expires. Flirty sassy Roxy is hot but mom-to-be Roxy is off the chart, somewhere to the right of the surface of the sun. Just the thought of rubbing her wetness between your fingers is enough to make you stiffen again, sandwiched between her thighs with the head of your dick lying against her perineum.

She draws your fingertips across her weeping slit, and you think to yourself that you’re going to have a mighty fine next two months.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr woo! - [blueraspberrybubblegum](http://blueraspberrybubblegum.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If you came here from Lift It Like It's Heavy: [Back to Chapter 11](http://archiveofourown.org/works/686370/chapters/1423121) | [Onward to Chapter 12](http://archiveofourown.org/works/686370/chapters/1461911)


End file.
